


How Wonderful It Might Have Been

by Redvelvetscissors18



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-07
Updated: 2019-08-07
Packaged: 2020-08-11 11:16:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20152714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Redvelvetscissors18/pseuds/Redvelvetscissors18
Summary: 'It would be nice if I could say ‘it started, as it will end, with a garden’. It really would. And maybe it would have done just that, had it not been for the single worst trait one can find in a demon – competence. Sadly, Crowley’s incompetence ran out sometime around the early two-thousands, when two demons lurking in a graveyard handed him a basket.'The Antichrist has been successfully delivered to the right parents and Heaven and Hell will get their war. Crowley and Aziraphale know they will have to fight against each other or risk destruction at the hands of their superiors. They also know that one side will lose and be wiped from existence. Their efforts to stop the war might not have been enough but possibly their efforts to end it will be.





	How Wonderful It Might Have Been

It would be nice if I could say ‘it started, as it will end, with a garden’. It really would. And maybe it would have done just that, had it not been for the single worst trait one can find in a demon – competence. If Crowley had been as utterly useless at his demonic work as he had been made to be, then possibly it would have ended, for him and an equally inept angel, with a garden.  
Sadly, Crowley’s incompetence ran out sometime around the early two thousands, when two demons lurking in a graveyard handed him a basket. As his plants will attest, the fear of Crowley is nothing compared to the fear of Satan himself.  
Demons have had much success in history. From the dramatic, sweeping disaster that so many Fallen are fond of – the Great Fire, the plague, that sort of thing – to something more fit for the modern age: eight sets of roadworks on the M5 in a stretch of as many miles. History is, essentially, a huge, looping string of demonic achievement. But this is not always the case. No, sometimes demons are thwarted. Sometimes it’s angels. Sometimes it’s other demons – Crowley, to be fair, left himself open to this by not bothering to hide his love of earthly delights and Hastur is only doing his job. Just occasionally, it’s humans. So, Crowley’s staggering competence might not have been the sole propellant of Armageddon. It was too much, however, even for an angel and a demon to combat that a scatty cult of satanic nuns might also be good at their job.  
And so it was, on what would prove to actually be a lovely, very mild, even balmy night, that the Antichrist was delivered to his family, his first taste of low grade evil the obvious relief on Thaddeus Dowling’s face that he did not have a daughter.  
… … …  
In London’s Soho, an angel and a demon passed the night how they often did: six bottles deep in the back of a bookshop. Armageddon was coming, after all, and they were none too happy about it.  
“I still can’t believe they gave the Antichrist to an American diplomat,” Aziraphale’s prim outrage as he refilled both glasses filled Crowley with a sort of fond fussiness that caught him off guard. Having tried, by his count, five times to say ‘bouillabaisse’, they had sobered up enough for a coherent conversation. He suspected that drinking to forget would not help this situation.  
“I can. The Americans are great at this slow corruption type of thing. Especially the rich ones.”  
“Mm, I suppose. But, Crowley, we can’t work together. We can’t go against the In-  
“-effable plan, yes, I know, Angel.” They sat in silence for a moment, before a metaphorical lightbulb – at least, he thought so, but several humans outside the shop swore they saw a light suddenly flicker to life – lit up above his head.  
“How can you be sure that this isn’t part of the Ineffable Plan?”  
“I beg your pardon?” Aziraphale’s desperation to find a loophole in his heavenly duty was written all over his face.  
“If I were to, say, tempt this boy to do bad, you would have to try and stop me, right?”  
“Yes. Heaven… Heaven couldn’t actually object if I was thwarting you.” Aziraphale’s smile lit up the room, bathing Crowley in the only divine light that didn’t burn. He watched the cogs in Aziraphale’s brain whirring.  
“We’ll watch over the boy, give him a push in the right direction. If we do it right, he won’t be evil. Or good, he’ll just be normal. We’d be like godfathers, sort of,” Crowley gave Aziraphale an amused look.  
“Godfathers. Well, I’ll be damned.”  
“It’s not that bad when you get used to it.”  
… … …  
Over the years, Warlock Dowling travelled the world with his father (who would have retained the title of diplomat into his sixties, despite lacking any real diplomacy). He saw Sydney, Hong Kong, Los Angeles, Paris and all the great civilisations in between. The life he had was one that most children or even grown adults only dreamed of. He made no real friends, however.  
It’s a common internet debate, whether the various personality faults of children came be blamed on the parents. Whether the most revolting parts of a person’s character might be traced back to their upbringing. The charitable among humanity – who, to their credit, stayed off the internet as much as they could – might say that Warlock simply didn’t stay anywhere long enough to root himself into the hearts of anybody his age. The less charitable – who made up the majority of any online debate – would undoubtedly argue that it was expectation of leniency, his entitlement, that caused him to be friendless. A realist might say both.  
What became apparent, by the eve of his eleventh birthday, was that he had few friends, the reasons functionally irrelevant. There were his acquaintances from school, even a few he might call friends, and younger cousins. A few agents’ children. But, when the festivities were done, they would not play in the woods beyond the house with nothing but recycling and imagination. They would be jetted off to the far corners of the world.  
In an official residence garden – how they wish it had ended with a garden – outside London, the end of the world began. In a white tent, encouraged by his guests and the excess of sugar coursing through him, the Antichrist shouted mild obscenities at an angel disguised as a magician. A demon watched them, concealing a smirk despite his worry, squirming in an overly starchy suit.  
Three o’clock approached. The seconds ticked by on Crowley’s antique watch and, just as Aziraphale pulled an irate rabbit from his top hat, the moment of reckoning arrived.  
Crowley liked to maintain that it was, at least partially, Aziraphale’s magic act that drove the boy suddenly outside, walking mechanically through the crowds of parents, children and the odd secret service agent. No one followed him, or even particularly noticed that he was missing, heckling the magician proving to be a far more entertaining pastime.  
It was, strictly speaking, frowned upon to use miracles on children. Something about corrupting – no, that couldn’t be it, miracles weren’t so good at corrupting – confusing innocent minds. Aziraphale did feel a deep twinge of guilt, but pushed it down and willed his unenthused audience to see him up there, performing, long after he had left the tent and joined Crowley at the periphery of the garden, eyes locked firmly on Warlock.  
“That thing you said about stopping the dog,” Crowley said, trying to keep his voice low, “is it possible I didn’t quite get across the size of it? Or the number of teeth?”  
“I’m an angel,” Aziraphale replied, primly. Half-baked offence settled as a mask over his anxious face. “How bad could it possibly be?”  
Humans say denial is not just a river in Egypt. They are, at once, talking nonsense and imparting wisdom but that’s besides the point. Denial is a great equaliser – for much higher stakes, someone ignoring the impending capsize of their company bears the same mental panic as a student suddenly without a mountain of homework. But it is not a common trait in angels – if it is ineffable, as all things that happen are, then it is worth acknowledging head on.  
Aziraphale is not like every other angel. His denial was so great that Crowley actually tore his gaze away from the Antichrist to roll his eyes.  
“Ah,” it was more a strangled choking than speech, but Aziraphale got his meaning across well enough. Stalking across the grass, a hound – for that was the only word that was appropriate – drooled viciously, growling deep in its throat. Warlock, for all his eleven years, seemed wholly unfazed by the whole thing. Eyeing the hound curiously, he reached out his hand to it and Crowley felt Aziraphale tense beside him.  
For a moment, Warlock only patted the hound’s face. It almost seemed to enjoy it. To any onlooker not terrified enough to lose their senses, it was a fantastically odd scene.  
Then he spoke. A deep, strained voice that was more like two voices diverging in one throat. “Stalks-by-Night.”  
Crowley groaned. He dearly wished he hadn’t said that one, even as an example and even out of the boy’s earshot. At least Throat-Ripper had been discarded – being discorporated by that creature didn’t bear thinking about. Then came the memories of their years as nanny and gardener, wiped away by a single word. Maybe it really was ineffable. Even the thought gave him the shivers.  
“As I said when they gave me the damn thing; shit.”  
“Mm,” Aziraphale couldn’t get the word out, but he could think of no other word for what in heaven or hell or anything in between they had just been dropped into.


End file.
